Lethal Experiment Read online

  “Is she,” I said, thinking, any nurse younger than Dana would have to be wearing a training bra.

  “Dana will be just fine,” Dr. Hedgepeth said, “but there’s a learning curve, you see.”

  I decided to move things along.

  “Are you doing the heart cath or shall I look forward to meeting your grandson, the Chief of Surgery?”

  “No need to be contentious,” he said.

  “Contentious,” I said, wondering if that had been one of his spelling bee words.

  “Performing a heart catheterization would be premature at this point,” he said. “You’re relatively young, you’re in great physical shape, your blood pressure’s excellent, your EKG is perfect, and the tests we’ve done showed none of the classic heart attack symptoms.”

  “So what happens now?”

  “We do a Cardiolite stress test. If that comes back normal, I’d advise you to get the hell out of here as soon as possible.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You can get sick faster in a hospital than almost anyplace on earth.”

  I was beginning to like Dr. Hedgepeth. “So I don’t need a heart cath?”

  “I don’t think so. What you probably need is a couple of hours and a bathroom.”

  “A bathroom.”

  “Your problem could be acute heartburn, a precursor of food poisoning. Did you eat something of questionable origin recently?”

  I thought about the beef burrito I’d choked down at the Horse Head Inn a few hours ago. And realized “beef ” didn’t necessarily mean cow.

  “Could you have eaten something truly vile and shortly thereafter engaged in some form of physical activity?”

  I thought about the Peterson sisters.

  “Look,” I said. “I’ve had heartburn before. But this pain was severe, and emanated from the center of my chest.”

  “Hey, we can always do the heart cath if you want. I mean, the hospital would love to pick up another thirty grand today. Ten times that, if we manage to poke a hole in your artery while performing the procedure."

  I frowned. "Is that type of complication likely?"

  "How to put this delicately," Dr. Hedgepeth said. "Our cath guy seems to be a cardiologist, but according to law he doesn't have to be a surgeon. He's from India and appears very bright, but he's quite young and his experience with heart caths is limited."

  "How limited?"

  "You'd be his cherry."

  “Uh huh. Heartburn, you say?"

  "Acute heartburn, yes. That, coupled with physical stress, could certainly produce the types of symptoms you’ve experienced.”

  I understood why he’d said it, but I’ve always had a cast-iron stomach. In years of testing weapons for the Army, I’ve had to swallow pills that made Horse Head burritos seem like Saltines.

  “If the stress test comes back clean, what should I do?" I said.

  "Go home and spend some quality time bonding with your toilet.”

  “And if that doesn’t work?”

  Dr. Hedgepeth hesitated. “Do you currently see a psychiatrist?”

  I frowned. “You think I’m imagining this pain?”

  “I believe the pain is very real. But you appear to be the sort of man who can handle a great deal of pain.”

  If you only knew, I thought, wondering if I should tell Hedgepeth that I’d been testing torture weapons for the Army for years. In the end I decided to just say, “I’ve certainly never had a problem handling heartburn in the past.”

  “Well, the pain’s coming from someplace,” he said, “and I’m almost certain it’s not the heart. But the heart is what I do, so we’ll test that first. Then the toilet, then the brain.”

  “Okay, I’m sold,” I said. “What’s the first step to this Cardiolite thing?”

  Dr. Hedgepeth, without the slightest trace of a smirk, said: “We need to get an IV started.”

  Then he walked to the doorway and yelled for Dana.

  Chapter 5

  I was still in the hospital, back in my street clothes, awaiting the results of the stress test. With time on my hands, I decided to break hospital rules and make a call on my cell phone. Kimberly answered on the first ring.

  “Daddy!” she squealed.

  “You sound almost too happy,” I said.

  “Does it show?”

  Oh oh, I thought. She’s in love. “Does what show?”

  “I’m in love!”

  “You’re too young,” I said, instinctively.

  “Oh, Father,” she said. “I’m a junior in High School.”

  “That’s young. Anyway, you’re not a junior until next semester.”

  “A technicality,” she said, “seeing as how school starts in ten days.”

  I sighed.

  “His name’s Charlie,” she said.

  “Please tell me it’s not Charlie Manson.”

  On the other end of the phone, in Darnell, West Virginia, my daughter giggled.

  We spent the next fifteen minutes talking about books we’d read, music we liked, and summer vacations we hoped to take someday. I asked her how serious her relationship with Charlie was, and she changed the subject.

  “Has Mom called you?” she said.

  “Not recently.”

  “She will.”

  I groaned. “What now?”

  “She found out about Kathleen. Her friend, Amy, told her.”

  I knew it had to happen. Several months ago, my ex-wife, Janet, had been engaged to the former wife beater, Ken Chapman. In the course of discouraging Janet from marrying the jerk, I met and fell in love with Ken’s former wife, Kathleen.

  “Dad?”

  “Still here, kitten.”

  I wondered how much Janet knew about Kathleen. Did she know only that I was dating the ex-wife of her former fiancé? Or had she somehow learned that the woman who came to Janet’s home and identified herself as Ken’s ex was actually a hooker I’d hired to pose as Kathleen; a hooker who lied about being beaten up by Ken Chapman.

  Whatever Janet knew, however angry she might be, it had been worth it. I’d prevented the marriage. I knew first-hand about Janet’s ability to push a man’s buttons. With his history of violence, Ken Chapman probably would have killed her.

  Kimberly sensed I was distracted. “Did you hear what I said?”

  “You said Mom knows about Kathleen and she’s going to call me.”

  “That was earlier. Just now I asked if you and Kathleen were living together.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Dad, why is it that when you talk about Charlie it’s all cut and dried, but when I talk about Kathleen it’s ‘complicated?’”

  I paused a moment before saying, “I wish I had a better answer, but the truth is, that’s a good point.”

  “Damn right, it is! I’m your kid after all.”

  “You are that,” I said. “Okay, here’s the scoop.”

  Over the next few minutes I told her about my feelings for Kathleen, and how I stay with her whenever I’m in New York. I told her about Addie Dawes, and about Kathleen’s adoption efforts. When I finished there was a brief silence on the line.

  “You okay?” I said.

  “Are you aware this is the first time in my life you’ve treated me like a grownup?”

  “How could I not? You’re a junior in high school.”

  “Try to remember that, next time you start worrying about me and Charlie.”

  “Ugh,” I said. “Speaking of Charlie, how much do you know about this kid?”

  Kimberly said something about him being twenty-one, but I was distracted by the curtain being pulled aside as Dr. Hedgepeth entered my cubicle. I motioned for him to give me a second. He frowned at my use of a cell phone in the emergency room, but waited respectfully.

  “I’m sorry, Kitten. What did you just say?”

  “I said, ‘Don’t even go there, Dad.’ Don’t go all crazy and run a credit check or background report on Charlie. He’s a good kid. His fathe
r’s a big-time attorney.”

  “Attorney? I’d rather have you date Charlie Manson than an attorney.”

  She sighed. “He’s not an attorney, his father is. Look, just promise you won’t run his records.”

  “I promise.”

  “Good,” she said. “Now go spend some quality time with Addie. She sounds adorable. And, Dad?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m happy for you. And I love you.”

  “I love you too, Kitten.”

  I clicked the phone off and Dr. Hedgepeth said, “As I suspected, you’ve got the heart of a lion.”

  I nodded.

  “Any pain since the test?”

  “None.”

  “Any stomach discomfort?”

  I shook my head. “Not yet.”

  “Food poisoning can take up to forty-eight hours to hit,” he said.

  “What’s the average?”

  “Six to eight.”

  “So it could still be that,” I said.

  “Yes, but we pushed you pretty hard on the treadmill. And you aced it. Even in the early stages of food poisoning I would have expected some abdominal cramping. Makes me think it’s not food poisoning.”

  He handed me a piece of paper with a name and phone number.

  “A shrink?” I said.

  “In case you want to see someone here, instead of your home town.”

  I pocketed the slip of paper and shook his hand. “You’re young, but you’re good.”

  He winked. “That’s what they all say!”

  Chapter 6

  “You know anything about this kid Charlie Beck? His father’s a big-time attorney in Darnell.”

  I was on the phone with Sal Bonadello, Midwestern crime boss and my sometime employer.

  “I know people who probably know him,” Sal said.

  Okay, so I promised Kimberly I wouldn’t run a credit or background check on her new boyfriend. But I never promised not to ask around.

  “Kimberly’s usually a great judge of character,” I said. “But something bothers me about this kid. For one thing, he’s old enough to drink legally.”

  “That’s a small town, Darnell,” Sal said. “People talk. I’ll make some—whatcha call—inquiries.”

  I thought about the way Sal might ask around. “I don’t want to make a big deal about it,” I said, “and I especially don’t want Kimberly to find out that I’m the guy trying to get the information.”

  “Hey, I got a girl of my own. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Thanks, Sal.”

  “You still comin’ to my party?” he said.

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “You bringing that new girl? The one lives in New York?”

  “We’re going dress shopping later today,” I said.

  “Dress her up hot,” Sal said.

  “She’d look hot in a flour sack.”

  “Flour sack’s fine. Make sure it’s a small one.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “What about the blond that works with you?”

  “What about her?”

  “She comin’?”

  “To the party? No way.”

  “Did you invite her?”

  “I did.”

  “Maybe I should—whatcha call—extend a personal invite.”

  I thought about Callie dressing up, attending a social event. Gorgeous she is. But, “She’s not a people person,” I said.

  “Unless it comes to killing them.”

  “Unless that,” I said.

  “If a kid’s gonna get in trouble in Darnell, West Virginia, it’s gonna be at the Grantline Bar & Grill.”

  “So?”

  “So I know the bartender, Teddy Boy. He owes me, big time.”

  “I’m not ready to have Charlie’s legs broken. Not yet, anyway.”

  “All I’m sayin’, Teddy Boy knows what’s what. If your kid’s been in the bar, he’ll tell me. If she goes in, he’ll keep an eye on her.”

  “Kimberly’s only sixteen,” I said. “You’re not going to find her in a bar.”

  “Darnell’s Darnell,” Sal said.

  “Meaning?”

  “You been there?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing to do in Darnell but drink, drug and fuck.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Hey, no offense,” Sal said.

  I thought about what he’d said, and how parents never think their kids would take the wrong path.

  “Maybe you better call Teddy Boy today,” I said.

  “I’m on it,” he said. “Hey, you know those midgets?”

  Sal could change subjects faster than a Congressman.

  “Victor and Hugo?” I said.

  “The same.”

  “What about them?”

  “They’re coming to my party.”

  “I’d heard that,” I said.

  “In the flesh.”

  “I’ll try to shake off that image,” I said. “You better tell your boys not to make fun of them. They’re pretty formidable.”

  “Hey, they been warned. Those midgets brought down Joe DeMeo.”

  “They prefer the term little people,” I said.

  “I prefer big envelopes.”

  Sal was referring to the contribution envelopes his underbosses and special guests were expected to bring to his party.

  “I been good for you,” he said. “And this here, with your daughter, that’s another example. Charity—whatcha call—begins at home.”

  “In this case, your home.”

  “That’s what I’m sayin’. So surprise me,” he said. “In a good way.”

  Sal’s world is a rough one, where loyalty is measured in cash or body count. I make it a habit to kick back more than my share of both.

  “Surprise you?” I said. “Sal, I’m going to amaze you!”

  “All I’m askin’,” he said.

  Chapter 7

  The office of Ms. N. Crouch, MD, was located in Newark, New Jersey, corner of Summer and Seventh, off Interstate 280. Ms. Crouch shared an office condo with a pediatric psychologist named Agnes Battle. Agnes was working the reception desk when I walked in. She pointed me to Ms. Crouch’s office, and I went in.

  Ms. N. Crouch stood and extended her hand to greet me. We identified ourselves and she gestured in the general direction of her seating area and said, “Please make yourself comfortable.”

  I did a quick survey of the office. Deep plum was the dominant color, except for the far wall, which was faux-finished in light brown with delicate black threading, to resemble cork. On this wall hung several professional certificates, including a diploma from the University Of Pittsburgh School Of Medicine. Everything felt crisp and modern, save for the antique wooden coat rack in the entryway corner.

  I chose a plush, high-backed leather throne chair and settled in.

  Ms. N. Crouch said, “Dr. Hedgepeth mentioned a possible psychosomatic pain?”

  If Darwin, my government facilitator, knew I was seeing a psychiatrist, he’d put an assassin on me. With that in mind, I was reticent about jumping right into things. I sat quietly and stared at her.

  She had on a layered skirt, navy, with a matching jacket she wore opened. Her blouse was cream-colored silk, with a round neckline. A cable-wrapped, white gold necklace dangled in two strands and rested modestly at the center of her chest.

  “Mr. Creed, you can remain silent if you wish. But just so you know, I get paid either way.”

  With that, she went quiet and stared back at me. It has been my experience with women that they don’t like to remain quiet for long periods of time. Which is why I was surprised that she allowed us to sit there in total silence, staring at each other, for the next twenty minutes.

  Finally, I said, “I believe I like you, Ms. Crouch.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, Mr. Creed.”

  “Call me Donovan.”

  She nodded, and we remained silent until she realized it was her turn to sp
eak.

  “Donovan, in one way my profession is similar to that of a dentist.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Like your dentist, I can’t begin helping you until you open your mouth.”

  I nodded.

  She continued, “There are several chairs here, from which a patient can choose. I purposely stay out of the selection process because the chair choice tells me something about the patient.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “For example, the chair you selected tells me you’re accustomed to being in control, which often indicates trust issues. You’re obviously finding it diffi cult to let your guard down enough to discuss your personal life with a complete stranger.”

  “Good point,” I said. “So tell me a little about yourself, and then we won’t be strangers.”

  She smiled. “With all due respect, Donovan, this session is about you. It would be highly unprofessional of me to discuss my personal life with you. More importantly, the less you know about me, the easier it will be for you to share your feelings.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Don’t tell me. I can find out anything I need to know about you by looking around the room.”

  “Really, you’re that perceptive?” she said.

  I noted that Ms. N. Crouch was on the edge of mocking me, despite her best effort to keep all emotion out of her voice.

  I stood up. “Shall I demonstrate?”

  “If you feel it necessary.”

  “Your face tells me you’ve been beautiful your whole life, but you’re older now, in your late fifties, and your clothes and hair style reflect your acceptance of that fact. You’ve aged gracefully, and you believe you’re smarter than your friends, even those who have surpassed you professionally. You keep but one picture on your desk, two young boys who appear to be Japanese-American. They’re your sons, but neither you nor their father is in the picture. If your husband had taken it, you’d be in the photo with your sons. If you’d taken it, he’d be in it. If your husband were dead, you’d have his picture on your desk to honor him. But there is no picture of the husband, which tells me you’re divorced. Based on your current age, and the age you had to be to give birth, these pictures are at least ten years old. You haven’t updated them because they remind you of a happier time.”

  I looked at her to see if she was impressed. If she was, she was hiding it well. But no matter, I’d only just begun.